


a shout into the void

by blazeofglory



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Depression, Drug Use, Gen, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier Friendship, M/M, Pre-Slash, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 13:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2069769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazeofglory/pseuds/blazeofglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose colored glasses never fit your face, but a dark hood works just fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a shout into the void

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should say a few things before you read this. First, I haven't written any Les Mis fic before, so this is all very new to me. Second, this is incredibly dark and depressing, and potentially extremely triggering. Read with caution! 
> 
> And third, it is late at night and I just wrote this all at once and I'm posting it without doing a lot of thinking. I may read it over when I'm less lonely, then delete it.

Nobody understands, and it’s-- it’s okay, you get it. You do; _really_. But sometimes, it hurts, and that hurt goes deep and _aches_. The Saturday nights you spend alone in your bed, knees pulled tight to your chest, you feel that _ache_ and you want to claw out your own heart if that’s what it takes to make you feel something.

You’re different. Not the _good_ kind of different; not cute or quirky or uniquely talented. No, you’re _different_. You’re too quiet when you’re tired and too loud when you talk, and you’re abrasive and rude and you’re just saying what you feel, saying what you think-- and no one wants to hear it. They don’t see the world how you do. Rose colored glasses never fit your face, but a dark hood works just fine.

There are some who try. The girl in your art class with the dark hair and bruises that she tries to hide-- you think maybe she gets it. She looks at you, _really looks_ , and there’s something in those eyes that makes you look away; out of fear or shame or some combination of the two, you don’t know. You hang out with her outside of school sometimes, and those Saturday nights aren’t so quiet. They’re loud, filled with the sounds of laughter and punk rock and the voices of all of this girl’s friends.

Eponine’s friends like you well enough, maybe. You’re not so sure, but she is. Either way, they aren’t like her; they don’t quite understand. They don’t have that haunted look in their eyes. They don’t wear long sleeves in the summer; they have nothing to hide. Half of them have never done a single illegal thing in their lives, and the other half have gotten drunk a few times and called that living. You envy them a little.

Some days are worse than others. Some days, you want to kill yourself before breakfast, and school drives you crazy with restlessness and anger at all the _goddamn injustice_ , and you spend your lunch alone and come home to the house empty, and-- and some days, you are so alone that the _ache_ comes back with a vengeance, settling low in your bones and coursing through your bloodstream, the world’s fastest poison. Some days, you want to crawl into a bottle and never come out.

You miss a few days of school because of those kinds of days, and when you come back, you’re hungover and exhausted and you have to smoke a joint before third period to even make it through the day.

There’s a club at school. You barely know anything about it because you’re hardly a model student-- you hardly even come to school, let alone stay _after_. But you have one friend, and all her friends are in this club, so you know enough about it. Eponine has a pretty blonde friend that never stops smiling-- she tells you all about it, about how the ragtag group of boys you hang around sometimes are trying to change the world. You scoff and you joke, and she lets you brush it off, but you think maybe there is a flicker of understanding in her eyes.

You think there might be something more to this blonde girl than meets the eye, just like Eponine. Maybe Cosette is more like you than you think, though you make no attempt to find out. You do not need to leave your stain on another person.

You do not have it that bad. There are so many that have it worse, so many lonelier than you and sicker than you and more fucked up, and yet--- and yet. You pity yourself and you pity the shithole of a world you live in, and now you pity the idiot boys that think they can change it.

You go to one of their meetings, but you do not say a word. It’s not because you’re trying to be respectful, but mostly because you’re too stoned to think on your feet easily enough to respond. _Next time_ , you promise to yourself. Next time, you will set them straight. The boy talking the most, you don’t know him, but everyone else seems to adore him.

He is shining and loud and passionate, and he looks at you curiously, and he is _beautiful_ , and you understand why he is adored. It only takes a second for you to adore him too. He is stupid and idealistic, and you hesitate to use the word _perfect_ , but if the shoe fits…

Days pass so, so slow. You don’t always get out of bed, and when you do, you regret it. Nobody understands. Your mother doesn’t care; probably doesn’t even notice. Your father already knows you’re a waste of space; this is no surprise to him. Eponine, though. She tries, and you love her for it, you really do, but you hate yourself for dragging her into this-- that frown on her face is all your fault. There you go, ruining your only friendship.

One day, she will realize that you are beyond saving. She will give up on you too.

You go to another meeting, but you do not stay all the way through. You learn the beautiful boy’s name ( _Enjolras, like the name of an angel or a brilliant artist or maybe a god_ ), and suddenly, you are so overwhelmed that you have to go, you have to get out, you can’t be around so many people, and some of them look at you funny as you stand abruptly, but you don’t care, you barely notice-- Enjolras looks concerned, you think, but you’re gone too fast to really know for sure.

Eponine calls you afterwards and you do not answer.

A week passes, maybe two, you don’t really know.

Some nights, you can’t sleep, so you take your mother’s sleeping pills. She doesn’t notice they’re gone, as you knew she would. She also doesn’t notice that you sleep through a whole day of school, as you also knew she would, but. But you had hoped, maybe... It doesn’t matter anyway.

Nothing makes any _sense_ , not really, and you still ache. There is an ache in your chest, in your heart, and you can cry a thousand tears, but the pain never lessens. Your blunt fingernails scrape and scrape at your arms, at your legs, and you barely feel it, you barely feel anything, and you want to get a knife, but-- but you can’t, because you know yourself. You know your limits, and you know what will happen if you give yourself the chance to do something stupid. If you grab more than one sleeping pill, if you grab too many bottles of vodka, if you grab the knife like you want to, you know it will all be over.

Somehow, you can’t quite bring yourself to go that far. At least not yet.

You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t know what you’re thinking. All you know is that you are alone, even when you are with people that say they care. Eponine’s friends say they do, and you _almost_ believe them, almost believe that earnest gleam in Combeferre’s eye and the smile on Courfeyrac’s face and the caring touch of Cosette’s hand on your arm, but you can’t. They are still only Eponine’s friends; not yours.

It’s better when you’re out. The weed helps, the vodka helps, the tequila helps, so you think maybe, maybe something else will help a little more. You sneak into a club with your only friend, and it’s surprisingly easy to find someone that sells something stronger.

You’re reminded, again, of the look in Eponine’s eyes when you first met-- that _knowing, understanding look_ , when she goes along with your plan. You do coke together in a dirty bathroom, and it helps, it really helps, you feel like you’re floating, you’re flying, and you’re both laughing and dancing, and maybe you throw up after a few shots of something that tastes awful, but you’re fine again, you’re good, you send a tweet about it, and it’s one of the best nights you’ve had in so, so long.

The next day brings a headache and more vomit, and an endless stream of concern from your-- _Eponine’s_ friends. Enjolras calls you; you didn’t even know he had your number. You hang up when you realize who it is. You make it to school a day later, and you do not meet his eyes in the hallway.

You pretend not to hear when he calls your name.

  
You are alone, and you _ache_.


End file.
